On the morning of my wedding, my mother threw my $2,000 silk dress into the fireplace / Chapter 8 / 53

Chapter 8 - A Cup of Death

Warren and I followed them into the kitchen. The tension in the narrow room was suffocating, thick enough to choke on.

Sterling turned on the electric kettle. The quiet hum of heating water began to fill the silence. He reached up into the cabinet, grabbed Bernice’s favorite rose-patterned teacup, and then unscrewed the lid of the mason jar containing the spiked blend.

"You're very attentive all of a sudden, Sterling," I said, leaning against the counter with my arms crossed, forcing my voice to sound casual despite the roaring in my ears. "Since when do you make tea for anyone but yourself?"

Sterling paused, a teaspoon hovering over the open jar. He shot me a cold, venomous glare. "Some people actually care about our mother's health, Elaine. Unlike you, who ran off with your boyfriend the minute things got tough."

"My husband," Warren corrected sharply. "We got married three weeks ago, Sterling. While you were hiding out in casinos, Elaine was paying off the oil heating bill for this house so your mother wouldn't freeze."

Sterling laughed, a bitter, grating sound. He scooped two heaping tablespoons of the dried herbs into the tea infuser, pressing them down deliberately. "Always the martyr, aren't you, Elaine? You think you're so pure. But you won't get a single penny of this property when she's gone. Not one cent."

"Nobody is dying, Sterling," I said, taking half a step forward. "Unless you have other plans."

Sterling froze. The silver spoon clattered against the rim of the cup.

He slowly turned his head to look at me, his eyes narrowing into two slits of pure malice. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you seem very eager to feed her that specific mixture," I said, pointing directly at the jar. "Why don't you have a cup with her, Sterling? If it's so good for the heart, pour one for yourself."

Bernice waved her hand dismissively from her chair. "Stop harassing your brother, Elaine! He doesn't have heart trouble; I do! Let the boy make my tea!"

"Go ahead, Sterling," Warren challenged, stepping up beside me, towering over my brother. "Drink a cup with your mother. Prove us wrong."

Sterling’s jaw twitched. A bead of sweat formed at his hairline, sliding slowly down his temple. He looked at the boiling kettle, then down at the fragrant, deadly leaves inside the infuser.